trhe only thing worse then a communication from a lawyers office that says nothing (which is most of them) is a communication from the lawyers office that is blank. G*d only knows what they can do with THAT!!!!

Apologies for dropping a mere number. I didn't have time to catch up on my daily dose of BS before doing SOMETHING to boost MOM to the top, so the number was easiest.

As I caught up I pulled up Kipling (over Kipple--a good word and concept, by the way, but what discursive value can be found in Kipple, especially when compared with the Bard of British Empirial poetry?)

The Young British Soldier

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier. Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what's fit for a soldier. Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts -- An' it's bad for the young British soldier. Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt -- Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out, An' it crumples the young British soldier. Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead, An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier. Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it's beer for the young British soldier. Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain't enough for a soldier. 'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! -- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier. Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier. Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier. Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine, For noise never startles the soldier. Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier. Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, So-oldier OF the Queen!

Before we all get carried away, wouldn't the verb 'kipple' go; to kipple, kippling, kippled.

We would have to form the new verb kiple, to arrive at the corect result...

ENGLAND'S on the anvil - hear the hammers ring - Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne! Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King - England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line!

England's on the anvil! Heavy are the blows! (But the work will be a marvel when it's done.) Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes. England's being hammered hammered, hammered into one!

There shall be one people - it shall serve one Lord - (Neither Priest nor Baron shall escape!) It shall have one speech and law, soul and strength and sword. England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into shape!

URGENT

THE FIRST DIRECT MEASUREMENT OF RECOIL MOMENTUM for single atoms struck by light in an absorptive medium has been made by Gretchen Campbell, Dave Pritchard, Wolfgang Ketterle and their colleagues at MIT. Parcels of light, photons, do not possess mass, but a beam of light does carry momentum. In general, when light strikes a mirror, the mirror will recoil ever so slightly, and this recoil has previously been measured. But what about a single photon striking a single atom in a dilute gas? The momentum of a photon equals h/lambda, where h is Planck's constant and lambda is the wavelength of the light in vacuum. In a dispersive medium, a medium which can scatter or absorb light, the index of refraction for the medium, n, comes into play: an object absorbing the photon will recoil with a momentum equal to nh/lambda. This is what has been measured for the first time on an atomic basis. The MIT team used laser beams sent into a dilute gas; a beat note between recoiling atoms and atoms at rest provided the momentum measurement of selected atoms. The fact that the recoil momentum should actually be proportional to the index of refraction came as something of a surprise to the experimenters.

The existence of momentum without mass is a stunning observation that opens the door to an unfathomable array of new BS.

Not to mention mirrors flinching from incident light rays. I submit tha if the light waves striking the mirror are harmoniously related (as when something of beauty stands before the glass) the mirror will flinch less than if discordant (and therefore ugly) rays are involved.

Please test this theory out and get back to me.

I can't test it myself as all our mirrors here have been leaping out of windows and breaking.

I always wondered why I was so shunned by girls in high school. It was only my light waves.

Thank goodness that since then women no longer abhor me. In fact, I have to beat 'em off or I'd never get anything done.

What I experience now might be called "antirecoil." Obviously, that should be described as nh*lambda. The problem is, the antirecoil itself causes recoil in the target subject. That creates anti-antirecoil, or nh/lambda, which, of course, creates anti-anti-antirecoil, and so on ad infinitum. In brief, the whole damned universe is just bouncin' around.

Since for every action there is an equal and oppisete reaction it stands to reason that for every woman repulsed by you - there is one equally attracted to you. The trick is meeting them. Likewise - for every woman who totally ignores you there should be a woman who is utterly fascinated by you.

But "For ever action there is an equal and opposite reaction" is from classical, Newtonian physics. We are now dealing with quantum BS, where anything can happen, and in some versions, has already happened, but we won't know about it until it's far too late, and the banjos come out

A squad of American soldiers was patrolling along the Iraqi border when they passed the dead body of an Iraqi insurgent in a ditch beside the road. A short distance further along the road, they found a badly mangled American soldier in a ditch on the other side of the road, barely alive. They ran to him, cradled his blood-covered head and asked him what had happened. "Well," he whispered, "I was walking down this road, armed to the teeth. I came across this heavily armed Iraqi rebel. I aimed my rifle and shouted, "Saddam Hussein is an unprincipled, lying piece of shit!" He looked me right in the eye and screamed back, "George Bush is an unprincipled, lying piece of shit!" "We were still standing there shaking hands when the truck hit us."

I have just read an article which I felt belonged here, and I'm certain that even Mother would agree. Since it is of some importance, I'm quoting it in full even though the source of information is unnamed.

Ratzinger was not the Cardinals' first choice for Pope. That was, interestingly, Cardinal Hans Grapje. Grapje was raised in a Catholic school in The Hague and, as a young man, aspired to become a priest, but was drafted into the Army during WWII and spent two years co-piloting B-17s until his aircraft was shot down in 1943 and he lost his left arm. Captain Grapje spent the rest of the war as a chaplain, giving spiritual aid to soldiers, both Allied and enemy.

After the war, he became a priest, serving as a missionary in Africa, piloting his own plane (in spite of his handicap) to villages across the continent. In 1997, Father Grapje was serving in Zimbabwe when an explosion in a silver mine caused a cave-in. Archbishop Grapje went down into the mine to administer last rights to those too severely injured to move. Another shaft collapsed, and he was buried for three days, suffering multiple injuries, including the loss of his right eye. The high silver content in the mine's air gave him purpura, a life-long condition characterized by purplish skin blotches.

Although Cardinal Grapje devoted his life to the service of God as a scholar, mentor, and holy man, church leaders felt that he should never ascend to the Papacy. They felt that the Church would never accept a one-eyed, one-armed, flying purple Papal leader.

Hello. I'm Mister Binky, a nondescript and musically ungifted male unfortunately saddled with a very descriptive name. You see, my first name is "Mister" and my surname is "Binky." Because of this I have led a very interesting life, especially in the Army where I was a helicopter pilot and a warrant officer. Warrant officers are, of course, addressed as "Mister" and I was addressed as "Mister Mister Binky." Civilian life has also been complicated by my name.

I wear thick eyeglasses and have chronic acne -- not enough to do something about medically, but enough to get me carded when I go for drinks (I'm 47). When I show my ID, bartenders always think that I'm jivin' them and get awfully nasty.

Despite my military background, I'm a very nonconfrontational, peaceful kind of guy. I never flew combat, but was one of the pilots who ferried the first President Bush around Camp David. Not to and from, but around -- to the fishing hole, to the golf course, and so on. Upon leaving the service I became an accountant in an HMO, where I am still employed with the title "Chief Medical Bean Counter"; my primary job is to deny medical procedures which are not cleary understood by my boss.

MIster Blinky, No. There is no hope for you. The only way out would be to go dig a hole. Fill it with grape jelly and horseradish, get nekkid and rest in the hole until your rectum burns and your body is dyed purple. That is your only redemption for hope. Proceed with caution and don't forget to bring some bread. Your truely, Miss AMNQITYL

The last woman who would go out with me suggested that same thing. I did exactly what she said, but even so she wouldn't go out with me again. Upon reflection I don't think she liked me all that much anyway, since she introduced me to someone at the soda fountain as "my potted plant."

She also recommened a surgical procedure that she was sure would help, but neither I nor my boss know what a "bilateral orchidectomy" is. We're familiar with splinters and hemorrhoids, mostly, and we rarely approve or even know about anything else. (We recently had a referal for a man who had a splinter in his hemorrhoids, but we turned down the surgery request as too complex, costly, and an unproven medical procedure.)

I forgot to mention that I have also developed a problem with malodorous flatulence, which has resulted in being banned from church services because I "win any competition with the organ."

Looks like Rapaire isn't the only one taking the holiday off. Wasn't someone gonna take Mom on a little road trip? Or maybe she should at least think about heading down to the Mudcat Tavern to buy a round of drinks.

I feel like a day-old croissant -- I spent most of yesterday oiling the timbers of the patio cover -- a long and arduous task involving standing on ladders with your arms over your head -- and scrubbing down the tiles, carrying some heavy furniture and generalluy pretending I was a 30-year-old.

But for Mom's sake I will strive to lift this thread back to the top -- such heavy lifting takes it toll.

Vacuumosis strikes. This rare disease occurs when the external pressure drops, as for example during a national holiday. The pressure imbalance causes the contents of the mind to rush out through the nose and mouth. As a result, a sort of mental vacuum sets up, preventing positive thought from occurring. When this phenomenon is wide-spread the entire Internet gets dull and predictable.

The vacuum will run later, but for the moment the mower is on Cut and I've just spent a warm muggy 45 minutes criss-crossing my front yard. Now I'll cool off (at the computer) then go police the back yard of dog toys and by-products and mow out there. Since we had so much rain yesterday I'll be out mowing again mid-week. In the heat and the mug.

-- Quarks never appear singly, but always as bound states of two or more, called hadrons, such as the protons and neutrons that make up the atomic nucleus. Thus, Nature hides its fundamental particles and we would like to understand better how the Strong Force achieves this.

-- Only the mass of the top quark is accurately known, because QCD effects are small for such a heavy particle. To determine the masses of the lighter quarks accurately (called up, down, strange, charm and bottom), QCD effects have to be computed. These masses are needed for detailed understanding of many phenomena and should eventually be predicted by the much sought after Theory of Everything.

-- There are six types of quark and this seems to be related to the small difference between matter and antimatter, called CP violation, that may help to explain why our Universe is dominated by matter (and hence why we can exist at all). QCD simulations are needed to discover whether our current theories can explain this, or there is some new physics at work.

-- The Theory of Everything is very likely to permit protons to decay. If so, the proton lifetime must be enormous, since no decay has yet been observed. Experimental lower bounds on the lifetime, together with QCD simulations, place restrictions on what the Theory of Everything can be and have already ruled out some candidates.

-- At enormously high temperatures and densities, such as may be found in neutron stars, everyday matter made of bound quarks may melt into a new type of matter. This change of phase, which is being searched for at Brookhaven National Laboratory by colliding gold and lead nuclei at high energies, is accessible to QCD simulations. What happens may tell us about what is going on inside some of the most exotic objects in the Universe.

Such cutting remarks from a gay blade! But the argument is quite rotary. Yes the charm of lawnmowers is undisputed, just ask any well trimmed Shrub partisan. That's all I have to say -- there isn't any mower!!

Climbed El Cap, Skied Broadway, rappelled up Devil's Tower, just had one helluva good time. Saw lots of wildlife, too, Mom -- mulies and elk and bison and black bear and pronghorns and apatosaurus and bald iggles and kestrel and osprey and everything! But Mom, the best part was sitting admidst the trees, letting the mountains and trees and wind have some time to say things.

Especially since Saturday morning before I could get out of town some *#!!@$%!! pervert had gotten 'round the Library's filter and visted child porn sites.....

People were stupid sometimes. They though the library was a dangerous place because of all the magical books, which was true enough, but what made it really one of the most dangerous places there could ever be was the simple fact it was a library....